The Thirty-Minute Miracle
Even checking the direct messages that piled up each day had become a job in itself.
So many came in over the course of a single day that there was no way to reply to everyone.
Their contents were mostly the same.
"Please appraise this relic."
"How much is this worth?"
"I'm a huge fan."
Then there were the ads, sponsorship offers, and invitations to appear on broadcasts.
It made no difference whether they came from Korea or overseas.
The attention was appreciated, but...
what Si-woo was looking for was relics.
He idly scrolled through the messages with his mouse wheel, and one of them caught his eye.
A direct message sent in English.
The sender's profile picture showed a blonde foreign woman.
The wording was loaded with implication.
He couldn't not click on it.
Once he accepted the message request, the full contents unfolded.
...In the past, my grandmother worked at a psychiatric ward in England. Every night, there was a patient who would stand in the corridor and play the violin to empty air.
But the strange part was that he would always stop halfway through and start crying, as if he were playing for someone no one else could see.
After he died and no one ever came looking for him, they were going to throw the violin away at the ward, but my grandmother took it.
She said it felt like someone should remember that man.
My grandmother passed away last month.
While sorting through her belongings, I found the violin she used to talk about to me when I was little.
Honestly, because it belonged to someone from a psychiatric ward, I remember being scared after hearing the story as a child.
So I wondered what to do with it.
Then I watched your Singing Bird videos and thought I should at least ask.
The message was packed densely with English text.
Four photos were attached.
The metal clasp on the old leather case was rusted over.
The second photo showed the case open.
Inside, a violin lay resting there.
It was old, but its shape remained intact.
The third showed the side.
The fourth had captured the interior.
The label had been damaged, as though scratched by a fingernail.
Name: Le Chant du Silence
Year of Manufacture: 1860
Place of Manufacture: Vuillaume Workshop, Paris, France
Maker: Jean-Baptiste Vuillaume (1798-1875). The greatest French stringed-instrument maker of the 19th century, hailed as the heir to Stradivarius and a master craftsman of legendary stature. Among his works, the 1860 model belongs to his mature period and stands as a masterpiece; even among surviving Vuillaume violins, it ranks in the top tier.
Fritz Kreisler (1875-1962). One of the greatest violinists of the early 20th century. This violin was one he favored as a secondary instrument, and in 1938 he personally handed it over to the Polish child prodigy Yosef Hassid.
There are initials carved with a fingernail on the inner lower left side near the soundpost inside the f-hole.
There is writing left by Yosef Hassid on the floor inside the pegbox at the head of the violin.
Estimated Value: At auction, the minimum estimated price is at least 5 billion won.
At that moment.
Light, tangled together with ominous darkness, burst out from the screen.
* * *
The room reeked of sourness.
According to the doctor, it was typhoid fever.
Yosef Hassid looked at his mother lying on the bed.
Her nails had turned purple.
It almost seemed as though his mother might call his name with that same gentle voice at any moment.
But no sound came from her lips.
The winter in Suwałki, Poland, was brutal.
The earth in the cemetery froze solid, and even a pickaxe bounced off it.
He managed to dig the ground and bury his mother.
At only ten years old, he sent her away like that.
Time passed quickly.
Karl Flesch, the foremost violin pedagogue of the era, removed his glasses and looked at Yosef Hassid.
It had only been one piece.
And yet the practice room had fallen into silence.
There were tears gathered at the eyes of the great master, notorious for his strictness.
"He's the most outstanding, astonishing talent I've ever seen..."
The rumor shook Europe's masters to their core in an instant.
The legendary violinist Fritz Kreisler was similarly left speechless after hearing the boy play.
"A genius like Jascha Heifetz is born once every hundred years. But a genius like Yosef Hassid is born once every two hundred."
Kreisler cherished Yosef Hassid's genius and, with no hesitation, gave him the 1860 Jean-Baptiste Vuillaume he had long favored as his secondary instrument.
"This instrument has been waiting for a genius like you."
Time passed again.
1940, Abbey Road Studios in London.
Inside the soundproof booth.
The sixteen-year-old boy standing before the microphone raised his bow.
Beyond the glass, the engineers held their breath.
From Elgar's Salut d'Amour to Tchaikovsky's melodies.
Each time the bow brushed the strings, it was as though the air inside the booth itself shuddered.
Every piece ended in a single take.
"Wait... that was a sixteen-year-old playing?"
The engineer pulled off his headphones, muttering in disbelief.
The total recorded that day.
Only 29 minutes.
It was the only record left to the world by a genius born once in two hundred years.
Yosef Hassid's life did not go smoothly.
Wheeeeeeeng-!
An air-raid siren tore through the London night sky.
The flames of the Second World War were devouring the city.
The dark, damp underground shelter trembled as though the ceiling might cave in.
People clamped their hands over their ears and screamed.
Yosef did not cover his ears.
It was because he was too terrified to do anything at all.
He clutched the violin's leather case to his chest so tightly it felt like his ribs might break.
Each time a bomb fell above ground, it felt as though one strand of Yosef Hassid's reason snapped.
That was when it began.
That was when fear started drilling into his head.
Before long, the sound of explosions began to mix with the melody of music.
1941, London Queen's Hall.
On a stage packed with an audience.
In the middle of performing Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto.
Yosef Hassid's bow stopped.
The crowd held its breath.
The conductor looked at Yosef Hassid.
Then Yosef stared blankly at his surroundings.
The faces in the audience were melting like candle wax, and the notes on the score were turning into insects crawling across the staff lines.
Instead of the orchestra's melody, air-raid sirens and screams exploded in his ears.
Where am I.
What is this thing in my hand.
Yosef dropped the bow and stood in the center of the stage.
Like a child who had lost his way.
Schizophrenia.
That was the diagnosis.
Saint Andrews Mental Hospital.
A white hospital room thick with the smell of bleach.
A man in his early twenties stood looking out through the bars.
He rested an invisible violin against his gaunt jaw and moved his arm slowly through empty space.
Indistinct muttering.
Fingers twitching under tranquilizers.
It was Yosef Hassid, once called the greatest genius in the world.
"Tsk. What on earth is he doing?"
The nurse in the psychiatric ward brushed past him, as if she couldn't bear to look.
1950.
On a cold operating table.
Yosef Hassid underwent a prefrontal lobotomy.
But infection began at the incision site.
Meningitis devoured his brain.
After fifteen days and three more,
at twenty-six,
a genius turned his back on the world in vain.
* * *
Ghhk.
It had only been the span of an instant when he was struck by it, but to Si-woo it felt like an immeasurably long time.
Radiance mixed with golden light and pitch-black darkness.
The moment he saw it, he was dragged into the memories of the man named Yosef Hassid.
That was dangerous.
His heart was pounding like mad.
Sweat poured from him as though from a storm cloud.
If he had not already read the memory inside General Gwon Yul's loyal sword,
if he had not had that mental strength, he would have collapsed right there.
The violin's memory.
No, it felt as though Yosef Hassid's memory had been transferred into the violin.
It was a shock different from the one he had felt with Van Gogh.
A wave of dizziness struck him, and his head throbbed sharply.
"Appraiser Kim Si-woo, are you all right?"
"...Yes. I'm fine."
Choi Yi-seo asked with a worried expression.
In truth, he was not fine.
At that moment of experiencing schizophrenia, he had nearly lost his mind.
He gulped down the water in his tumbler.
But his thirst did not fade easily.
He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath.
Then he recalled Gwon Yul's memory.
Flowing Blood, Alert Spirit
Even in a hellish battlefield where blood flows like a river, I will keep my mind and reason as cold and clear as ice, without the slightest wavering.
Little by little, color returned to his face.
Only then was he able to steady himself.
After that, he typed into the search bar.
Yosef Hassid
The man from his memory appeared on the screen.
Born in Suwałki, Poland.
He debuted on the London stage as a teenager and was met with rapturous acclaim.
In 1940, at the age of sixteen, he recorded 29 minutes of music at EMI Studios.
Even today, it was regarded as one of the most astonishing performances in violin history.
But then the Second World War broke out, and as his anxiety worsened and schizophrenia deepened, he was confined to a psychiatric hospital.
He died at twenty-six from the aftereffects of the lobotomy performed while he was in the hospital.
It was exactly like the memory he had just seen.
A genius who flared up briefly and vanished.
Only the 29 minutes of violin sound he left behind remained.
And yet no one ever belittled him.
When he looked at the violin on the screen, his left hand rose without his realizing it.
The posture of holding a violin beneath his chin.
Goose bumps rose over him.
This wasn't my habit.
Yosef Hassid's memory was still left inside his head.
The headache was still there, but more urgently than that, he sent a direct message.
* * *
After booking a flight from Eterna Gallery and driving home, Yosef Hassid's memory would not leave Si-woo's mind.
The young man crying in the psychiatric hospital, playing the violin into empty air.
His gaunt fingers sawing desperately at the bow.
Whenever he closed his eyes, the violin's melody lingered at the edge of his hearing.
It was like an unbearable thirst.
He felt as though touching the violin might be the only way to make it stop.
He turned the car toward the Jongno district.
Passing through the alleys of Nagwon Music Arcade, he spotted one of the largest instrument shops.
Several violins hung in the display window.
If he didn't touch a violin right now, he felt as if he might go mad.
The remnants of Yosef's memory at his fingertips were searching for one.
When he opened the door, a bell jangled.
"Welcome!"
A man who looked to be in his fifties greeted him warmly from inside.
There were many instruments on display, but his gaze was fixed on only one thing.
Violins.
There were several customers in the shop.
Two young women who looked like conservatory students were choosing bows, while a middle-aged man was wandering in front of the drums.
Si-woo's eyes stopped on a violin hanging on the wall.
"You can try it."
The shop owner said with a smile.
"Can I play that one?"
"Of course. You should handle an instrument before you buy it."
He took the violin carefully into his hands.
The motion of resting it beneath his chin came naturally.
The emptiness in his chest settled down.
Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto.
The very piece Hassid had been performing in Queen's Hall when he lost his memory and stopped.
The moment Si-woo began to play.
the air inside the shop changed.
At the exact point where it had stopped, a mournful violin melody poured out.
The two conservatory students, who had been choosing bows, both turned at once.
They had never heard a violin sound so beautiful and so tragic.
The middle-aged man looking at the drums and the shop owner both stared, eyes wide.
His fingers moved on their own.
Yosef Hassid's memory remained in his fingertips.
At some point, Si-woo was so absorbed he didn't even notice it.
He closed his eyes.
People passing outside the shop began to stop one by one.
Through the open doorway, the sound of the violin spread into the alley.
Someone took out a smartphone.
The video record button was pressed.
One of the conservatory students gasped and clapped a hand over her mouth.
How much time passed?
It felt as though every trace of thirst had vanished.
Si-woo lifted his head and looked up at the ceiling.
Every note that had slipped from his fingertips held the story of Yosef Hassid's life.
A violinist whose talent never had the chance to bloom, who vanished into a tragic fate.
Locked inside the white walls of a psychiatric ward,
a young man who stood in the corridor night after night, playing, crying, and playing again.
The resentment and sorrow packed into that performance had just been released into the world through Si-woo's hands.
It was the first violin he had ever played.
And yet it fit his hands as though he had been playing for decades.
Then a roar of applause and cheers erupted.
Not only the customers inside the shop, but even the passersby standing in front of the door...
"Holy crap..."
"Was that real just now?"
"Who is that guy?"
Flustered, he lowered the bow.
The shop owner stood there with his mouth hanging open.
"Are you a violinist, by any chance?"
"No, I'm not."
"You're not?"
The owner's expression stiffened in disbelief.
After clearing his throat, he spoke again.
"Sir, I've spent thirty years in this business. I can't make instruments, but I pride myself on having a pretty good ear. And the performance you just gave was not something I was in any position to judge."
"Is that so?"
Si-woo gave an awkward smile, but the owner continued in a calm voice.
"One thing I can say for certain: with that level of skill, there isn't a violin in this store that matches your standard."
"Hmm... then what's the most expensive violin you have here?"
"Would you mind waiting a moment?"
The owner walked toward the back of the shop.
He moved behind the wall display and opened a separate glass case with a lock on it.
Inside, a violin rested on velvet.
Its sheen was different from the rest.
"It's hand-crafted by an Italian artisan from Cremona. It's the most expensive item in the shop, and it's 100 million won. ...Though even this instrument might not be able to keep up with your playing."
"That's too generous. I'll take it. One payment."
The owner blinked.
"...You're paying 100 million won in a single payment?"
"Yes."
Si-woo held out his card.
The shop owner took it with a dazed expression.
His hand trembled as he swiped the card at the payment terminal.
The limit had already been cleared, so the payment went through immediately.
There was a confirmation call, but he brushed it off as nothing.
As he placed the violin in its case and handed it over, the owner said, "In the thirty years I've run this shop, I've seen all kinds of players. But I've never seen anyone play like that. If you ever perform anywhere, I'd really like to hear you. Could you tell me where you play?"
"I don't perform with the violin or anything like that."
He had only briefly eased the resentment after reading Yosef Hassid's memories.
This wasn't his own skill.
He had been flustered until moments ago, but now that his chest felt clear, he smiled.
Then people around him began to gather.
He bowed his head and quickly left the shop.
That night, the conservatory student's video was titled like this.
Handsome man suddenly plays the violin in Nagwon Music Arcade. Everyone is blown away by his skill.
- Huh? He kind of looks like Appraiser Kim Si-woo? Who is this guy???
- Holy crap. Amazing lololololololololololol
- What the heck, I was moved by his handsome side profile at first, then moved again by the violin sound.
- Who is he? At this level, he must be a famous violinist, right?
- Wow, he's a guy and I'm about to fall for him. I'm going straight to learn violin now.
It became an instant sensation, and the view count was rising fast.